I'm Glad I'm Not Really Claustrophobic
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John's not claustrophobic. Sherlock's not claustrophobic. So, being stuck in a lift shouldn't be a problem. But, actually... Well, what part about being stuck in a lift fourteen or fifteen floors off the ground, with no electricity or mobile signal, in a building where no on is in, while it's stifling hot, REALLY sounds good to anyone?
1. This Would Only Happen to Us

**I'm Glad I'm Not Really Claustrophobic...**

"Oh, it's hot," John muttered, following Sherlock to the lift. "We had to come here after hours, didn't we? When everyone's gone and the air's off and even all of the windows are closed."

"Too many people make for too much clutter."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I forgot that you can't think around the stupidity in the room when there's people."

Sherlock smirked, pressing the down button to call the lift. "You're learning."

John only rolled his eyes, pulling at the collar of his shirt. It was too hot. He was sweating already, and they hadn't been there for twenty minutes. He was eager to get back outside, where it was equally hot but at least there was some air moving, and hopefully, into some place that had air, like Scotland Yard.

The lift doors dinged open and John eagerly followed Sherlock into the compartment, resisting the urge to fan himself with his hand. They would be out of here soon-

John glanced sideways at Sherlock when the detective slumped again the wall, presumably thinking.

"Aren't you hot?" John asked dryly.

Sherlock glanced up. "No."

"I have a feeling that you're probably sweating under those ten pounds of material."

"Don't exaggerate, John. It's tasteless."

John smirked, shaking his head. Sherlock never left the coat at home, ever. Frankly, it would have been a bit... awkward, really, if Sherlock didn't wear it when he was out. But still, when it was this hot...

John might have felt bad for him, if it wasn't his stupid stubbornness that prompted him to wear the coat in the first place.

Abruptly, the lift came to a jerking halt. The momentum sent John off balance; he fell against the left wall, just catching the rail to keep from falling entirely. The lights blinked once, twice, and the lift was enveloped in darkness.

"W-What happened?" he stammered, straightening up. His eyes shot towards the doors as he ignored the small spark of panic beginning to flare in his chest.

Sherlock pushed away from the wall (he must have fallen against it as well), taking a step. John was blinking, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He felt Sherlock brush up against him in walking to the doors.

"As is obvious, John, the lift has stopped."

"Yes, I... I kind of guessed that, actually," John replied somewhat sarcastically. He wasn't claustrophobic, per se, but there was something about being trapped in a lift, a suspended lift, in the dark, with no one in the building, when it was broiling hot... that didn't sit well with him.

"Well, brilliant," John muttered. "What-what floor, do you reckon?" He hadn't been paying attention to the floor lights, but they had been on floor twenty-two, to start with-

"Fourteen."

"Oh." Because being fourteen floors up should help with the small spark of panic. Totally.

"Between fourteen and fifteen."

"What?" John looked back at Sherlock. His eyes were starting to adjust.

"We might be stuck between fourteen and fifteen. It's possible."

"Probable?"

"Likely."

"Great." Because being stuck between fourteen floors up and fifteen floors up, and not being able to force the doors because they would be met with a solid _no-exit_ shouldn't cause the spark of panic to swell. Never.

"What now?" John asked, looking at Sherlock. "Emergency button?"

"The emergency button in a lift _stops_ the lift. In this case, the lift has stopped."

"Thanks for the school lesson," John said dryly. "You know what I meant."

"Well, there's no intercom. The building's old... old, faulty lifts. In this case, however, I think it's just a power outage."

"And that helps... how?" John asked. He let out a deep breath, ignoring the feeling deep in his chest that he wasn't taking in enough oxygen. It was too hot, he was panicking a bit, and there was this sick feeling in his chest demanding more oxygen. The air was hot and heavy, each breath oppressive- or maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him. He took another careful breath before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

_No signal._

Because being trapped in an lift in this sort of heat, between fourteen floors up and fifteen floors up, and not having a signal on his mobile _definitely shouldn't_ send a drive a sharp twinge of panic straight into his chest.

"Sherlock... do you have a signal?" he asked, looking up. "On your mobile?"

Sherlock paused before fumbling for his coat pocket, drawing out his mobile as well. "No."

"Great." John took another deep breath. It shook slightly. He let it out, slowly, forcing away all the thoughts of what could happen and what might happen and replaced them with _we're stuck in a lift; might as well get comfortable_.

He retreated to the corner of the compartment, sitting down.

Sherlock looked down at him. "What are you doing?"

"Well, we might be here for awhile," he said plainly. "The power outage, if that is what it is, is probably causing problems with the cell towers, so..." He let his voice trail off.

Sherlock watched him for a moment longer before he looked back at his mobile, then stashing it away. "Lestrade knows where we are. He'll figure it out eventually."

"Eventually..." John echoed, shoving his sleeves up. "Eventually could be a very long time..."

* * *

**Welcome to the second multi-chapter of the day! Another cliche, overused idea! I bet you're probably like ****_Oh, _****geez****_, an elevator fic. How dull. _****I give credit to the season premiere of ****_NCIS _****[I don't watch it, but it happened to be on, and I noticed the trapped-in-an-elevator thing and thought it might be nice to try]. Hopefully, someone might like the idea. xD**

**Your feedback is appreciated! Thanks!**


	2. Sherlock Deduces and Misuses His Friend

**2**

"So..."

The silence was bothering John. If he had something to work on, he could have handled this a lot better. But, giving him a stuck lift and Sherlock Holmes and nothing _else_ to do, well, he got a bit anxious.

"Perhaps an hour."

"Hm?"

"I know you're wondering how long we're going to stuck here. However, you're not asking, probably because you don't want to sound like you really care, so I simply answered the question in advance."

"Oh. Great," John replied dully. Sherlock had it down, as usual, to a tee. He didn't want to ask because he didn't want to shine light on the slowly-growing bit of panic. Sherlock was calm- he didn't seem to be so much as phased by the whole thing. John could act calm, too.

... He just forgot that his best friend _was_ Sherlock Holmes, the man who noticed everything.

"Panicking will only make the situation worse," Sherlock said.

"I'm not panicking," John replied.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Because I know different."

"Well, you're wrong."

"I'm never wrong."

"Don't," John started tartly, before stopping. He took a near-silent breath before continuing. "Don't make me have this conversation again. It never ends well with you."

"Admit that you're panicking."

"I'm not panicking!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as his voice raised. John dropped his head back against the wall, sighing heavily. His fingers worked over the top button of his shirt, undoing it. He was irritable.

Sherlock wasn't right- he _wasn't_ panicking. He was just... a bit anxious.

"You're worried," Sherlock stated slowly. "You're restless; you're hardly sitting still for longer than a minute, which, if your mind was on something else, you could manage it easily. Then there's also the nervous habits: biting your lip, tapping your fingers against your leg, which I can still hear, by the way."

John frowned and curled his fingers into his palms, ceasing his unconscious tapping.

"You're irritable, as proven by the fact that you were almost just yelling at me. That could be a product of the heat, no doubt, as well as the sweating, but both are signs of anxiety. Your body's tense; you're holding yourself in the military stance that usually designates a crisis. You're not claustrophobic; you've never had a problem with small spaces before, and it's highly unlikely that you've just formed a fear of lifts or heights, so, the conclusion, obviously, is that you're anxious, and thus, slightly panicking."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing his eyes. Sherlock was right about all of that; of course he was. However, as he had told Sherlock time and time again...

He hated being deduced.

Movement to his right made him open his eyes again and look towards Sherlock.

The detective had shrugged off his Belstaff coat and had sank to the floor, leaning back against the wall. As John watched, Sherlock fumbled with his phone.

"It's been a half hour," Sherlock said.

John replied with the first thing on his mind. "Feels like longer."

"This really bothers you?"

"S-Seriously? Why wouldn't it?"

"It could always be worse."

"_How_ could it be worse, Sherlock?"

"Could be underground. In a crypt."

John frowned, resisting the urge to shiver even though he was sweating. "Has that happened to you?"

A brief smirk passed Sherlock's otherwise passive expression. "Once, actually. Lestrade and the Yard took awhile to find me. The bodies made for entertainment, though."

"Oh, you would find it funny to be locked in a crypt."

"Well, not funny; it was rather irritating. I could have caught my criminal by that point and been back at Montague for that matter. But, when faced with the unchangeable..."

"When life gives you lemons," John muttered.

"What?"

"When... When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade?"

"Oh. I don't like lemonade."

John looked at him harshly. "It's... It's metaphorical, you know. There's actually no lemonade involved. Or lemons."

"Isn't there?" Sherlock's voice was distant; his eyes were locked on his mobile's screen. It was clear that he wasn't really listening to John now, probably having lost interest.

John sighed heavily, sliding a bit down the wall. "You know..."

"Probably."

"That dehydration can occur without hours," John continued, ignoring Sherlock's interruption.

"Yes."

"In warm temperatures."

"Yes."

"You can still get dehydrated even if you're drinking water."

"You have to drink enough to make up for the lost water, yes, I know. Not drinking enough water in hot temperatures can result in quick dehydration, especially when one factors in excessive sweating- oh." Sherlock looked up. "I see what you're getting at. We could end up in a mildly unpleasant situation."

"We're _already_ in a mildly unpleasant situation. It could get a lot worse... quite quickly, is all I'm saying."

"Interesting." Sherlock paused, looking back at his phone as he thumbed to one screen or another for a moment. He then looked back to John. "It's been a half hour. Temperature in the lift is anywhere from ninety to one-hundred. John's concerned about probable dehydration. He is also suffering from anxiety."

John frowned. "Who are you talking to?"

"Documenting our experience."

"What?"

"It's an experiment."

John looked from Sherlock to Sherlock's phone, recognition falling into place soon thereafter. "Sherlock, turn your recorder off!"

"I'm documenting-"

John reached over and swiped the mobile from Sherlock's phone, cutting off the audio recorder. "We're not making this into an experiment."

"It's an experiment whether you want it to be or not," Sherlock said after a moment, taking back his phone.

That was when John noticed the one bar of signal on Sherlock's phone. "Wait wait wait!" Sherlock's fingers froze on the phone. "Signal! There's a signal! What's your speed dial for Lestrade?"

"Two."

Without moving the phone, John and Sherlock both holding it, John hit Lestrade's speed dial and turned on speakerphone.

"'lo?"

"Greg, we need your help."

Lestrade paused for a moment before his police procedure kicked in. _"Where are you?"_

"The warehouse that you sent us. Listen, the lift's broken down."

"You're stuck in the lift?"

"Yeah, I can't believe it, either. Sherlock thinks that-"

"We're stuck between floor fourteen and floor fifteen. We've been in here a half hour," Sherlock said, cutting in. "Anytime that you could get some of your force here would be wonderful, but the quicker, the better."

John glanced sideways at Sherlock as Lestrade repeated the address to someone on the other end, explaining in clipped sentences what was happening.

"I don't want to be stuck with you if you happen to have an anxiety attack," Sherlock said in return to John's glance.

John knew that Sherlock could be an arrogant prat, but there was something in that statement that made John feel a mixture of anger and... betrayal...? Well, that didn't make any sense, except that... well, Sherlock was his friend, and would it _kill_ him to not be such an annoying sod for five _seconds_...

"We're sending someone out there right now-"

Lestrade's voice cut out. _"- outage, so there's- might take-"_

"Wait, hang on, I can't hear you," John said quickly.

"- reception. Help's on the-"

"Greg? Greg!"

But only a dead dial-tone echoed in the confines of the lift. For a moment there, John had been able to forget that, really, _they were stuck in a stupid lift!_, and he had had someone else to talk to, an outside source that could get them help, let them know what was happening around them. But now...

"I'll take that back now, thanks," Sherlock said, pulling his phone out of John's grasp and going back to immersing himself in whatever the hell was so important on it.

John almost glared at him, but it wasn't worth it. Sherlock wouldn't understand it, anyway. Sherlock didn't understand... human emotion.

He slumped back against the wall again, closing his eyes tightly. This was a nightmare... and it was only just beginning.

* * *

**Getting stuck in a lift with the most disagreeable man in all of London? Come on, there's going to be some angst. There's going to be some fighting, and there's going to be moments where they're sick of each other [or John is sick of Sherlock, at least]. But... where there's angst, there can also be _positive_ bonding. Heh...**

**By the bye, I like this stuck-in-an-elevator idea. xD I ended up writing a _Cabin Pressure_ fic to it. I'm so mean to my favourite fandoms' characters. xD**

**Your feedback was great for Chapter One, and I hope it continues! Thanks so much!**


	3. Think of Ze Italiano!

**3**

They could very well die here.

John was really trying to not think about that, but it was what it was. It was was being stuck in a lift that was, as Sherlock has said, anywhere from ninety to one-hundred degrees. And it wasn't going to get any cooler any time soon.

They could die.

They could very well have heat stroke or get dehydrated-

"John."

John opened his eyes warily, looking across the small expanse towards Sherlock. The detective was watching him intently, eyes narrowed, although there was the slightest bit of unrecognizable emotion in those metallic eyes.

Quicksilver eyes... Silver, like metal, metal hooked up everything in the lift. If one thing went wrong, they would go plummeting to their deaths. John didn't have a fear of heights. Not at all. There was a single ingrained molecule of the fear of _falling_, however, that he was pretty sure every human had. No one _wanted_ to cascade to their death, especially when you could or potentially would be crushed in the impact-

"_John._ Look at me."

John opened his eyes again (when had he closed them again...?), raising his gaze to Sherlock's eyes again.

"Take a deep breath."

Take a deep breath? Why would he do that? The air was hot and heavy and he was tired of taking in deep breaths that did absolutely nothing to help him...

"John."

John took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly. In and out, inhale and exhale... That was good, probably... For some reason...

"Tell me why you didn't like my experiment this morning."

Experiment? What experiment was he talking about now? John shifted slightly, hating the feeling of the back of his shirt sticking to the small of his back. Too hot, stifling, really...

"_John_, the experiment. The one with the fingernails in the hydrochloric acid."

Oh, _that_ experiment. Yeah, John hadn't been exactly _sanguine_ about that.

"Tell me why you yelled at me when you found it. It wasn't doing any harm."

It was disgusting, for one. It was disturbing, as was any experiment that Sherlock did. It couldn't have been healthy, especially the fumes that had been in the kitchen that morning, from one experiment or another. The fact that he had tried to store the fingernail experiment in the fridge where he had also placed the uncovered pasta had made John sick to his stomach at the time...

"I tell you time and time again not to put that stuff in our fridge, Sherlock... Cross-contamination can happen _in _the refrigerator," John was saying. He hadn't even been aware that he'd been speaking all of his thoughts out loud, but he, consciously, heard the last two sentences.

Sherlock sniffed, turning his attention away. "Do try to contain your thoughts from now on. Nothing bad is going to happen."

John sat up a bit straighter, self-conscious. Did he... Did he just have a mild panic attack without even realizing it? Panic attacks could be triggered by the smallest stimuli, but just his thoughts...? Well, Sherlock was living proof that the mind was capable of amazing things.

He let out a short breath. "Sorry."

Sherlock grunted in reply, tapping away on his phone again.

... The silence did _not_ help anything. At all.

Sherlock sighed after a few moments, dropping his mobile into his lap. "Lestrade should be here by now. Of course, getting the elevator to actually _move_ is something different altogether..." He looked about the small lift. "What are we getting for dinner?"

"Dinner?" John echoed, looking at him quietly. "You're..." he cleared his throat, "You're eating, then?"

"Case'll be solved soon. Well, really, as soon as I can get out of here," Sherlock muttered. But then he said louder: "Yes, I'll be eating tonight."

"Uhm..." John blinked hard, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "Well, Mrs. Hudson probably fixed us something, but we won't be back until late because of, well, t-this-"

"Is she going to, I don't know, heat it up or something?" Sherlock interrupted.

John let out a breath. Sherlock was trying to keep his thoughts away from what was happening, wasn't he? He would have smiled... if he wasn't still fighting the anxiety.

"She doesn't like giving us leftovers, so..." He rubbed his forehead. "Probably not, so... we might grab something."

"What do you want, then?"

"What do _I_ want? Oh, I know this is a ploy now; you're asking me what I want..."

"I don't have extensive research on the different types of food in town. Unless you want Chinese, then I'm well up in that."

"Oh, no, no. We've been living off of Chinese. No, thanks."

"So?"

"Italian?"

"Mm. Sounds good."

"Does it?"

"Doesn't it?"

John frowned at him. "Well, of course it sounds good to me. I suggested it."

"You like Italian."

"Yeah. What's your point?"

"What are you getting?"

"I don't know. Why do you care?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I just wondered."

John sighed lightly, sliding down the wall slightly. Sherlock was insistent on knowing all about what they were having for dinner. It was a coping mechanism. Not for himself, but for John. And that was the only reason that John was putting up with it.

So, he was going through a list of Italian in his head, figuring out what sounded the best tonight.

"Pizza sounds good, actually."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled slightly.

John huffed. "Let me guess, you don't want pizza. You asked me what I wanted and now you don't want pizza!"

"You can get pizza if you like."

"What did _you_ want, Sherlock?"

"Lasagne sounds good."

John paused. Lasagne did sound good. But, so did a six cheese pizza with double pepperoni and sausage, especially from _Franco Manca_. Oh, hell. Now he was hungry. "We could get both."

Sherlock half smirked. "Hungry, are we?"

"_You_ put the idea of lasagne into my mind!" John retorted. Sherlock full blown smiled in satisfaction. "I want pizza and you want lasagne, I mean, we can do swapsies and you can some pizza and I can have some lasagne."

"Mm. What kind of pizza?"

"Six cheese, double pepperoni and sausage from _Franco Manca_."

"If you're going to pay the price, get something good."

"What would you suggest?" John replied tolerantly, almost amused, now, at Sherlock's reaction. Here they were, calmly talking about dinner. Amazing how simply a mind set could change if there was something to occupy it.

Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"Oh, I see. You don't want _my_ pizza, but you won't offer suggestions. What kind of lasagne are you getting?"

"Alfredo Florentine lasagne."

John tried to come up with a good response to that, something dismissive like the way Sherlock had reacted to his pizza suggestion. In the end, however...

"I want some of that," he said instead.

"Fine." Sherlock was smirking again, amused, or at least, acting like it for the sake of the situation. "I guess I'll have a piece of the pizza, even if you get the boring kind."

John laughed quietly to himself. Until his stomach decided to growl.

Then it was Sherlock's turn to snicker.

"Yes, hungry," Sherlock stated idly, in the tone of _deduction complete_.

John just rolled his eyes, resting his head back against the wall.

* * *

**I want Italian food now.**

**Your thoughts are welcome and wanted! Thanks!**


	4. Help Me Break the Silence

**4**

"Sherlock?"

"Hour an a half."

"Right."

John sighed heavily, forcing his eyes open. In the hour that had gone by since Sherlock had last announced the time elapsed, the consulting detective had completely shed his outer layers. The coat first, then the blazer. It was more the action that Sherlock was actually undressing that proved that it really _was _hot. It wasn't just a figment of John's imagination.

"Sherlock?"

"I estimate that Lestrade will have the lift working in near a half an hour."

"Of course."

He was starting to feel the effects of dehydration. _This _was either a figment of his imagination, or he really _was_ starting to feel the effects of dehydration. He believed it was the second option. Dehydration could occur in as little as thirty minutes in a hot environment. It had been an hour and a half and his mouth was dry and his head was starting to pound lightly in the silence.

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, for the love of-"

"Thank you."

John returned his chin to his knees as Sherlock looked up at him. The detective's face was mildly confused now, his eyes analyzing John carefully. He obviously couldn't figure out the reason that John was thanking him. John didn't mind that Sherlock didn't understand it. Of course he wouldn't. It was more sentiment than anything else.

"Right," Sherlock muttered, returning his gaze to his phone before giving an almighty sigh. He dropped the mobile on the pile of clothes that was his coat and blazer, running his fingers quickly through his hair. "This is tedious."

"Do you think?" John replied sarcastically. He glanced towards the doors and then back to Sherlock. "Did you just realize that?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Silence fell upon the elevator. John swallowed, closing his eyes. Part of him wanted to sleep and hopefully, when he woke up, they could go back home. Part of him was afraid to, because, irrationally, he thought that he might not ever open his eyes again.

"John."

John reopened his eyes, raising his gaze towards the detective. Sherlock looked back at him for a moment, his eyes assessing. Then, he looked away.

"It's hot," Sherlock finished.

John couldn't find the proper enthusiasm to respond in the way that he should of. Instead, he just replied with a glum "yes, it is".

"Shouldn't have you carried a bottle of water or something?"

John closed his eyes again. "Why would I carry around a bottle of water , Sherlock. I don't even have my gun because you rushed me out of the house this afternoon."

"Oh, I have your gun."

"What?" He blinked his eyes open again, fixing Sherlock with a less-than-angry glare.

"I picked it up. Just in case." Sherlock nodded slightly towards the pile of fabric that was his coat. "I don't see how it would help now."

"Well, no..." John muttered. "No, it won't. Can't shoot a lift..."

"Actually, it's possible."

"No," John said quickly. "Don't you dare think about firing that gun." He didn't bother to add that if he heard gunshots at the moment, he _really_ wouldn't be able to get a handle on his panic. Another irrational trigger; memories of his Afghanistan days.

"Hmm..." Sherlock sighed after a moment, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

"Do you have a headache...?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied airily. He shifted his position and pushed himself to his feet. He immediately swayed and actually stumbled into the wall before collapsing altogether.

"Sherlock!"

John hadn't lived with Sherlock for this long without seeing the human side surface every once in awhile. He'd, literally, watched him fall asleep in the back of a cab after a particularly brutal week-long case. He'd heard Sherlock's stomach growl on occasion. He'd even witnessed Sherlock sick, one time, after he had eaten non-thoroughly cooked chicken for a lack of anything better to eat.

But there was something terribly unsettling about watching Sherlock Holmes, the graceful, lean, poised Sherlock Holmes, pass out.

And the resulting thud of that graceful, lean, and poised body hitting the floor would not leave John's mind for some time, he was sure.

"Sherlock?" He scrambled the small distance to the collapsed consulting detective, quickly pressing his fingers against his neck to check for a pulse. Slightly accelerated, but otherwise normal. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He tapped the detective's face lightly. "Sherlock?"

There was sweat beginning to bead up around Sherlock's hairline. It had to be hot, for the tolerate Sherlock Holmes to sweat. He had to be too hot; thus, the passing out. Of course, that could be a symptom of dehydration, too. What was it called? Fainting upon standing...? Oh, come on! He knew this...!

"... John?"

John immediately looked back at Sherlock. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock blinked hard before sitting up suddenly. He blinked again, squeezing his eyes shut again.

"Woah, okay, take it easy..." John muttered.

"Orthostatic hypotension..."

"What?"

"Ortho-" Sherlock coughed, slumping against the wall- "orthostatic hypotension."

When John actually let his mind process that, he realized what Sherlock was trying to say. "Oh! Right. Yes." Orthostatic hypotension was, essentially, a head rush or a brief spell of dizziness that could result in fainting. Could occur because of heat. Could occur because of dehydration.

"Are you okay?" John asked, watching the detective warily. "Do you feel ill?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Fine... I'm fine."

"No. No, you're not fine. It's too... too damn hot," John muttered. "You're too hot."

"I'm fine..."

"You're sweating. You never sweat." John stood, pacing away. "When's the last time you had anything to drink?"

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder, closing his eyes.

"Okay, that doesn't help. You were probably already dehydrated before we got here..." John swore lightly under his breath, drawing his fingers back through his hair. "Look, you-" Whatever he wanted to say was useless. _You should drink more!_ Well, that was good advice that Sherlock would never follow, and it wouldn't help now. _You need to get something to drink!_ Again, pointless to say for the circumstances. _You're going to get worse if you're going to stay this hot. _That was obvious.

John sighed. "We need to get out of here."

"Lestrade should be here soon."

"Yeah, you keep saying that..." John sighed, sinking back into a sitting position next to Sherlock. He leaned back against the wall, sighing in disgust when his shirt once again stuck to his back. Too hot.

He glanced at Sherlock once again. Sherlock just looked a little pale, a little sweaty, but otherwise fine. He still had his eyes closed.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes. "Hmm?"

"You tired?"

"Not at all."

"Right..." John leaned his head back against the wall. "Please don't go to sleep."

"No."

They both fell into an uncomfortable silence, leaving John wondering when the _hell_ Scotland Yard was going to bother to find them.

* * *

**My fickle and changeable mind finally decided to work on a chapter for this!**

**Your reviews are appreciated, as always. Thank you.**


	5. Air Conditioning is a Must

**5**

John wrenched his eyes open at a sudden noise. The panic came back, full-force, and John scrambled to find purchase on Sherlock's arm.

He only realized what he was doing when Sherlock gave him a very annoyed look, looking pointedly from his arm to John's hand on his arm.

John removed his hand.

"What was that?" he murmured, trying to contain his panic and maintain his slight embarrassment at going to Sherlock for comfort. Sherlock didn't comfort. Stupid reaction on John's behalf.

Another loud noise.

John, this time, unashamedly, flinched into Sherlock with a highly odd sort of whimper escaping his lips. Panic. Panic and terror, sheer terror- they were going to die- they had been stuck here for so long and now they were going to _die_-

"John, breathe!"

There was a hearty thump on his back and he nearly pitched forward from the movement. He looked wildly at Sherlock for a moment, whom was looking at him with something that looked close to concern in his eyes.

Oh, they were really going to die. Sherlock didn't get concerned. Sherlock looked concerned now, and they were _certainly_ going to _die_-

"John! John, look at me!"

There was pressure on his shoulders and John flinched, reaching up to shove Sherlock's hands off. Sherlock didn't let John do that- or rather, he did, but followed it up with something very uncharacteristic. He curled his fingers around John's, lacing their fingers together.

"John! John, it's fine. We're fine. They're just working on the elevator. I told you that Lestrade would be here soon." Sherlock was speaking very slowly, making each word distinct to make sure John got the meaning. "We're okay."

John stared back at him, assessing those keen eyes. It didn't _seem_ like Sherlock was lying- but what did John know?

"We're fine. You are fine."

John let out a very deep breath. "Right... Right," John repeated. There was a moment of silence before he added "Your hands are sweaty".

An odd look passed Sherlock's face before he relinquished his grip on John's hands. "Affirmative. You are, as ever, quick to state the obvious. However, John, you are dripping with sweat as well, so if anyone should complain, I really think it should be me."

John almost laughed, slumping back against the wall again.

And nearly jumped again when the elevator started to move. (At a normal elevator pace, mind.)

"Aha..." Sherlock said softly, nearly under his breath. "Couldn't have gotten here two minutes ago..." Sherlock murmured, reaching across the elevator for his coat and jacket.

John hastily got to his feet, although the world swayed oddly when he stood. For a panicky half second, he thought he was going to be the one to pass out, but he, thankfully, didn't. He gripped tightly onto the railing to keep his balance, Sherlock doing the same exact thing when he stood as well.

When the doors _ding_ed open, John quite literally thought he could cry.

"Are you two okay?" Lestrade's worried voice was the first that spoke out of the little crowd outside the elevator. "Sorry we took so long, so many problems..."

Sherlock interrupted him by striding out of the elevator. He brushed past him easily, if not a little unsteadily. "As usual, Lestrade, your timing is impeccable."

"Really?"

"Impeccably slow," Sherlock said. "Come on, John. We're going to go find some air conditioning."

John looked helplessly between Lestrade, Sherlock, and the elevator before muttering a hasty thanks to Scotland Yard. He hated to run away from their saviour party, but...

Air conditioning sounded wonderful.

And perhaps a tall glass of scotch as well.

* * *

**The ending is very short and very abrupt. I know; I am sorry. That being said, I don't really dislike it. I can only write heat and exhaustion and panic and being stuck in a small metal box for a little bit of time. xD**

**Thanks for all the continued follows/favourites/author alerts and favourites/reviews. I appreciate it so much! Thanks for following yet another story by me! :D**


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